


Left to Linger

by ncfan



Series: Doriath [6]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anger, Ban on Quenya, Banned Language, F/M, Forced Identity Change, Gen, Identity, Kinslaying, Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 16:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1034012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ncfan/pseuds/ncfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thingol's ban on Quenya: Thingol's reasoning behind it, and Melian's take on the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thingol

"I will only ask this once," Melian said, once they were alone, and there was no trace of her usual good humor, nor any trace of her usual inscrutability in her face or voice. "Have you lost your mind?!"

Typically, when planning to issue decrees, add or make alterations to the laws of Doriath, Thingol consulted with his wife first. It was sound practice; Melian wouldn't be caught off-guard in public and made to look like a fool, and Thingol would have someone he trusted not to be thinking of her own interests first to consult with. Over the years, it had become something he did automatically, and Melian, Thingol had discovered, did not like it when he deviated from this pattern.

"No, my love," he responded testily, looking around his study for a quill and ink pot and bare parchment to write upon. "I find that I am still quite sound in mind." If he was furious, he had a right to be.

There was a sharp rustling of cloth that Thingol could only assume came from Melian smoothing down her skirts in an abortive attempt to calm herself. "No, I suppose you have not. There's not nearly enough foam around your mouth for that," she remarked sarcastically. "So that's one good thing at least. But Elu…" Some of the fire left her voice, to sound weary instead. "What do you possibly hope to gain by this?"

Thingol turned and looked at her incredulously. Melian's face showed shock and anger and tiredness, showing emotion more nakedly than he was used to, far more than he was used to. He looked at her incredulously, and she stared at him in disbelief. "What do I hope to gain?" he said slowly, tasting the words in his mouth, and all the while marveling that it was evidently so opaque to her. "What I _hope_ , Melian, is to teach the Kinslayers that not _all_ will bow to threats of murder and theft."

"And you think that banning the use of Quenya in Beleriand will do that?" she asked tiredly.

"As a matter of fact, I do." Thingol's lip curled in the beginnings of a snarl. "What better way to punish their crimes than to strip them of their very language, and make them pariahs for cleaving to it?"

Melian sat down at the table in the middle of the room, reaching up to rub her forehead. "Perhaps that is one way to look at the issue." Thingol bit back the urge to snap about Melian reducing a massacre of the Teleri down to an 'issue.' "But please, Elu, think about what you are doing."

He noticed again how tired she sounded, and any anger Thingol harbored against his wife evaporated. She was not the one he needed to be angry with. Thingol took a seat opposite his wife and sighed. "What would you have me do? Completely ignore the wrongs the Noldor wrought in Aman? Take vengeance upon them, and wash my hands in Edhil blood as well?"

She shook her head. "No, my dear." Melian smiled faintly. "And it gives me great relief that the first thought in your mind when you learned of what had transpired was _not_ to exact retribution. But I am not certain that banning the use of the Noldor's tongue is a good solution either."

"How so?"

"Elu, within the confines of Doriath, such an edict can be easily upheld. The Edhil here will adhere to your wishes, even those not of the Sindar. But what about beyond the borders of Doriath?" Melian's brow furrowed. "How do you expect to enforce a ban on Quenya outside of our kingdom?"

"So long as our people adhere to it, easily," Thingol told her stiffly.

Melian's eyes flashed with irritation. "It's not that simple!" she snapped. Thingol stared at her, amazed; this was the closest he had ever come to hearing her shout. Even when Lúthien had, as a little girl, climbed on the exterior of the caves of Menegroth after Melian had told her to stop, Melian had not shouted. She seemed surprised with herself as well, for Melian drew a deep breath before going on. "It's not that simple, Elu," she said again, more calmly. "You have to _think_.

"You propose a ban on the language of Quenya, in both its written and spoken forms. You propose also that any among the Noldor who continue to use Quenya shall be taken as unrepentant Kinslayers, and should be shunned by all the Edhil of Beleriand. Such a ban can be easily enforced within Doriath. This is the stronghold of the Sindar; any Noldo here would have no choice but to speak Sindarin. But what about the lands beyond our woodland home?

"Beyond Doriath, the Noldor by far outnumber the Edhil of Beleriand. They have already built great cities; they have vast armies, and many weapons. But most important is their numbers. Most of the Edhil outside of Doriath live in small communities, isolated from one another. Some of them might choose to follow your commands, out of loyalty to you. If the Noldor use Quenya around them, the Edhil might shun them. But the Noldor will not care. They will continue to do trade with their own people, and communities of the Edhil who do _not_ adhere to the ban."

Thingol scowled, and she laughed a little. "Oh, Elu. Do not give me that look. You know very well that not all of the Edhil living here acknowledge you as their overlord. Or even like you all that much. Many of the Green-Elves do not care that you are High King over the Sindar. The only King they have ever acknowledged or will ever acknowledge is Denethor, and he lies in his grave on Amon Ereb. And do you honestly think that any of the Avari care at all that you were the Valar's chosen ambassador to Aman?

"And what of the Edhil who choose, or are forced by the Enemy's raids, to come to live in Noldorin cities where they have some hope of safety? What will become of them? With your ban in place, Elu, they have two options. They can adhere to it, and be utterly cut off from everyone around them, except those who also follow the ban. Or they can break it, and become pariahs themselves among the Edhil who _do_ follow it. Do you really think—"

The creak of the door being pushed open effectively cut off anything else Melian was going to say.

Thingol craned his head around his wife, and saw his daughter standing in the doorway. But Lúthien had no eyes for him; if anything, she seemed to be avoiding looking at him altogether. "Mother?" she asked, hesitant and ill at ease. "Artanis wanted to speak with you. She…" Only at that moment, did Lúthien's eyes flash to Thingol's face, but it was only a moment, and soon they were back on Melian. "She seems upset."

For someone who had been so intent on making him see her point of view on things a moment before, it was startling, truly, how quickly Melian rose to her feet and crossed the room. She smiled faintly at her daughter. "Let's see what she's upset about, then." The smile faded from her face as she turned back to look at Thingol. "Please… Please think about what I said."

They were gone.

Thingol leaned back in his chair and sighed.

He had amassed ample experience in dealing with groups of Edhil who had very little in common and, more to the point, absolutely could not get along with each other. Since the Enemy's raids had started, so many different groups of Edhil had flooded into the forests of Doriath, seeking shelter. There were, for example, the Nandor community living in the east of Doriath and the clan of Avari that had settled not far from them (And to set the record straight, Thingol knew _quite_ well that not every Edhel in Beleriand acknowledged his authority; neither of these two communities paid any mind at all to Menegroth and those living in it). The two absolutely did not get along, which Thingol found rather ironic, considering that they were very much like in their habits, more akin to each other than either were to the Sindar.

When they all still lived by Cuiviénen, Thingol had become somewhat infamous among the Nelyar for constantly threatening to solve disputes by knocking the heads of the offended parties together. He still threatened to do that from time to time, though these days mostly in jest. His dignity as High King over the Sindar would not allow him to do such a thing.

Thingol wished, however, that he'd been there to knock Olwë and Fëanáro's heads together. He might have been able to stop the chief Kinslayer in his tracks, if he had.

_Fëanáro… Finwë's son._

Suddenly, Thingol found himself wanting to scream rather than sigh.

His brother's grandchildren had given him a brief account of the history of Finwë's house in Aman. _I need to apologize to them for my accusations,_ he mused ruefully. _Artanis looked as though she might faint when I accused her of murder of her mother's people._ The five of them had told him all they knew, and Thingol believed that he could piece together what had occurred.

Thingol remembered Finwë. How could he not? Finwë had been probably his closest friend; it was he who first gave the eldest of the three Nelyarin brothers his nickname, Singollo, which would become Thingol, Grey-cloak. New of Finwë's death, especially the manner by which he met it, and in a place where he should have been safe from all harm, Thingol grieved to hear it.

He remembered Indis and Míriel as well, though Thingol had known the former better than the latter—Indis had, as the Minyar's messenger, visited the Nelyar often, while Míriel rarely left the Tatyarin camp. He had clear images of them both in his mind, clever Míriel, quick and witty, quiet Indis, braver than most gave her credit for. And now Míriel was dead as well, and Indis was left without either her husband or her friend. Thingol grieved for Finwë and Míriel, and though centuries and an entire ocean separated them, he felt he must have grieved with Indis as well.

But he grieved for his brother's people more.

Elmo had stayed behind, all those centuries ago, to look for him after he vanished into Nan Elmoth with Melian, and Elmo had been swallowed by the dark himself. When Thingol had emerged with Melian, when he established Eglador, Elmo never came to him. Instead, Thingol found a nephew, a niece, and two grand-nephews he had never met, telling him horrible stories of their people's wanderings and of the brutal death of their patriarch at the hands of the Enemy.

Olwë had gone on ahead, leading the people now called the Lindar across the sea to Aman. Thingol had found his brother's grandchildren by a daughter he had never seen, and he had received terrible news of the foul murder of the Lindar for their ships, led by Fëanáro and his sons.

_I should have been there. I should never have strayed away from the camp._

Thingol would not trade his wife, nor his daughter, not for all the riches in the world, nor the resurrection of the dead. But he could not deny those thoughts. If he had been in Aman, he would never have allowed the Kinslaying to pass. If he had been there, his surviving brother would not now grieve for the countless dead.

However, Thingol had not been there, and the Noldor had perpetrated a heinous massacre against their kin the Teleri. Blood was on their hands, and would be there forevermore. Thingol did not care that the chief Kinslayer was dead, nor that his eldest son had been maimed, and that he had relinquished the High Kingship of the Noldor to his uncle. It was not enough. No Kinslayer's hands would ever be clean. Reparations had to be made. Nothing would ever be enough, but the Noldor had to pay for what they had done. They could give up their language, or be accounted utterly unrepentant. They should be grateful that Thingol hadn't asked for more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fëanáro—Fëanor  
> Artanis—Galadriel
> 
> Edhil—Elves (singular: Edhel) (Sindarin)  
> Nelyar—the third clan of the Elves, the precursors of the Teleri (singular: Nelya) (adjective form: Nelyarin)  
> Minyar—the first clan of the Elves, the precursors of the Vanyar (singular: Minya) (adjective form: Minyarin)  
> Tatyar—the second clan of the Elves, the precursors of the Noldor (singular: Tatya) (adjective form: Tatyarin)  
> Eglador—the former name of Doriath, before Melian set her barriers about it  
> Lindar—'The Singers'; the name Olwë's division of the Teleri gave themselves


	2. Melian

_How long has it been since I last spoke in Valarin? How long has it been since I thought in that tongue? How long since I last used the language of creation, that which Father put into our heads in the beginning?_

_We used no words when we met. What words could there be? We were enraptured with each other, you and I. The Maiar have the gift of understanding, and the gifts of even the wisest of Edhil pale in comparison. When we came back to ourselves, I spoke your language, and when we found how the tongue of your people had changed, I learned it, and taught it to you._

_But do not think, even for a moment, that I have forgotten the tongue I learned in the cradle of creation. Do not think, even for a moment, that I do not still love it._

Lúthien did not lead her mother back to the throne room, where Melian had seen Artanis last. Somehow, that surprised Melian not at all. Artanis was not the sort to break down in public. If she was upset enough for Lúthien to send for Melian, Artanis had likely retreated to somewhere more private.

Indeed, far from leading Melian to the throne room, Lúthien cut a swift track through the courtiers' residential apartments, barely acknowledging anyone who happened to be out in the halls. "She won't speak with any of her brothers," Lúthien explained, her voice cracking slightly. She had been present in the throne room when Elu declared the ban. "And I am not sure of what to say to her. Maybe you can help?"

"I will do what I can, daughter," Melian soothed her.

The furrows went out of Lúthien's brow, and she nodded and smiled slightly. She had faith in her mother, had always trusted Melian to smooth out disputes and ruffled feathers and troubled hearts. Surely now would be no different.

Melian gently pressed open the door to Artanis's apartments, and passed quickly through the small living area, into the nís's bedchamber. There she was, sitting on the long edge of the bed, face grayer than the stone walls, sitting so still that she could have been taken for the bedposts or the hangings. Melian took one look at her, and felt her heart fill with pity.

Lúthien crossed the room and sat down beside Artanis, putting her hand on her shoulder. "I've brought Mother," she said without preamble. Lúthien swallowed, and her throat fluttered like a bird shaking its wings. "You can talk to her, if you wish."

Melian knelt down in front of the bed, taking Artanis's large, long-fingered hands in her own. "What is it, child?" she asked kindly. But Melian had a feeling that she already knew what the matter with Artanis was. A sharp stab of anger against Elu twisted in her gut.

Artanis drew a deep, steadying breath, straightening her back and shoulders, lifting her chin. Melian recognized that gesture; how could she not? Once she had taken on this nís as a protégée, Melian had seen Artanis take that stance at least once a month. Whenever she was angry, whenever she was saddened or upset, whenever she wanted to hide something or put on a brave face, this was the stance she took. Melian knew what it represented without having to be told. Artanis was the proud Noldorin princess, unbowed and unyielding. It hurt Melian's heart to see it. This nís needed healing and guidance more than she needed anything else, and such gestures only reminded Melian of how many layers of hard defensiveness she still needed to dispose of.

"He… The King…" Her lovely face contorted for a moment, fierce and ugly, before Artanis was able to go on. "Is he going to go through with it, Lady Melian? Will he ban the use of Quenya in Beleriand?" She was speaking in Sindarin, Melian noticed, very deliberately. Since coming to Doriath, Artanis had put a great deal of effort into learning to read, write and speak in Sindarin, but she usually lapsed back into Quenya when she was upset. Now, however, Artanis was still using Sindarin, and seemed to struggle with every word.

The Queen nodded slowly. "I think that he will." _I hope that Elu will not, but I suspect he will. I will not tell you otherwise; it would only serve to raise your hopes, just to dash them, and I am not that cruel._

Artanis's nostrils flared. "When?"

"Very soon, most likely."

Artanis nodded, and Melian had to fight to keep her expression neutral. Was she counting down the days until she would no longer be able to use her own language even among her own kin? Going to Nargothrond would be no solution, Melian knew that much; Findaráto would abide by Elu's ban, even in private, in order to maintain good relations with Doriath. The domains of Angaráto, Aikanáro and Artaresto were too far to allow for regular visits. Artanis would stay in Doriath, or Nargothrond, but no matter where she went, she would be forced to adopt a tongue that was not her own, and speak a language that even now rested uneasily upon her lips.

It wouldn't be long before Elu was doing his very best to force every Noldo in Beleriand to read, write and speak in a language that they had barely mastered, were still struggling to master, or could not use at all. And not every one of those he forced into this had the blood of the Teleri on their hands.

Artanis was one of those, an Edhel without Telerin blood on her hands. Melian was not certain that Artanis was _entirely_ without Edhil blood on her hands. There were little hints, a tensing in her back, the guardedness of her eyes, the tightening of her mouth, that told Melian that Artanis was not telling all there was to be told of her own role in the flight of the Noldor. There was the odd, conflicted guilt that would steal across her face, from time to time, that with the information she had now made Melian think that Artanis had not told all there was to tell of her actions in Alqualondë. Artanis would not say where she had been and what she was doing when the Noldor fell upon the Teleri in Alqualondë, but there was a story there, whether or not it had been told. But Artanis had none of the blood of her mother's kin on her hands. Of that much, Melian was sure. And she was just as sure that Artanis would be treated no differently than any of the other Noldor by her husband, regardless of her kinship to him.

"And tell me…" Melian wouldn't have thought it possible for Artanis to draw herself up taller, but her ward of sorts was a tall nís, taller than any Melian had seen among the Edhil, and Artanis now sat so tall and straight that it was easier to take her for a carven statue, meant to be larger than any living Edhel, than a breathing person. "Will the King ask me to change my name as well?" Artanis asked bitterly. There was resentment there, in her glinting green eyes. There would be resentment towards Elu in the eyes of every Noldo in Beleriand before long.

Melian shut her eyes for a moment before responding, drumming up every last ounce of calmness she possessed. "Probably."

At the same time she said so, Lúthien seemed to crackle with indignation. "My father wouldn't…" She spoke sharply, but when she realized what her mother had said, she trailed off, and stared at Melian, gray eyes wide. "Mother, he wouldn't," she muttered, uncertain and troubled, the plea behind it clear: _Tell me he wouldn't do such a thing._

"Your father is very angry, daughter." And Melian could say nothing more than that on the matter.

Lúthien's face rearranged itself into a mask of nervousness trying to disguise itself as lightheartedness. "I suppose we'll have to find you a new name then, cousin!" she chirped, too brightly. "Wasn't Celeborn calling you 'Galadriel'? We could always call you that."

Artanis set her jaw grimly. Somehow, Melian didn't think that Lúthien's attempts to comfort her were meeting with much success.

Lúthien noticed Artanis's continued grimness, but seemed to attribute it to a different source. "Ah… Celeborn was by, earlier, wanting to speak with you." Lúthien smiled apprehensively. "I told him to go away. Did you want to speak with him, Artanis?"

Finally, Artanis spoke. "No, Lúthien," she said, and if Lúthien was too bright, Artanis was too even. Too much trying to project the impression that everyone was fine, and would be fine. "Not now. Later, perhaps."

Melian decided to leave them to it; she wasn't any more sure of what to say to Artanis than Lúthien was. Any attempts to comfort her would be met with the erection of the walls. Any probing, and those walls would grow six feet thick. She went to sit in the living area of Artanis's apartments, barely hearing her daughter's soft entreaties, her unsuccessful attempts to cheer her cousin trickling through the bedchamber door.

She did not doubt that Artanis, her brothers, and all of her father's kin would find themselves forced to give up their Quenya names by Elu's ban. Their names, after all, were rendered in Quenya. They were names that had meaning in the Quenya tongue rather than the Sindarin one, and they would be just as objectionable in Elu's eyes as anything else in Quenya. He would ask them to give up even their names as satisfaction for the deaths of the Teleri of Alqualondë.

_How much of our self-image is centered around our names? How much of our identity is centered around them? Our names are the symbols of our identity; we are unanchored without them. Without our names, we are isolated._

_How much of our identity is centered around our language? Language shapes us, the way a river shapes the land and the wind shapes the mountains. It shapes our thoughts, our moods, the way we see the world. The Edhil are not so flexible as I in this arena. I find it easy to switch from one language to the next, even if love of the Valarin tongue is still lodged deep in my heart. The Edhil, on the other hand, they struggle to learn languages. They struggle to learn to read, and write, and speak in them. Even when they speak in a language foreign to them, they still think in their cradle-tongue._

_And what is it that happens to them, when they speak in one language, and think in another? I have seen it, among our own people, in Artanis when she struggles to follow the conversations of those around her. They grow frustrated, despondent. Everyone around them thinks in one language, and they think in another. The sensation of isolation overwhelms them._ (And perhaps Melian felt isolated herself, despite the ease with which she was able to think in a foreign tongue, and adjust her very mindset to fit that of the people she lived with.)

_How could Elu have forgotten that? Has he so thoroughly absorbed Sindarin as his people speak it today that he no longer notices that it is not the language he learned when he awoke by Cuiviénen? Has he forgotten his own frustration when he was trying to learn the language of his own people?_

This ban of Elu's would make enemies out of every Noldo in Beleriand. Perhaps not overt enemies. No, Melian suspected that the term 'overt enemies' would likely have to be reserved for the sons of Fëanáro and their followers, the Kinslayers against whom Elu's ire was greatest. But it would make enemies out of all the Noldor who had come out of Aman, whether overtly or not. Cutting them off from their language, the seed of their identity, would spark the flames of resentment in the hearts of all the Noldor against Elu Thingol, he who tried to make them give it up. Even if the ban failed to successfully take root in the soils of the land (and Melian suspected that that would indeed be the case), they would still remember what he had tried to do.

Melian looked towards Artanis's bedchamber door, left ajar, and another objection of hers to her husband's ban rose in her mind. It was one of paramount importance to her, and one that she knew would move him not at all. It was the pain that the Noldor would feel at being stripped of their language. Melian did not imagine the Kinslayers when she thought of the pain the Noldor would feel. She thought of those who had taken no part in the Kinslaying at Alqualondë. She thought of the little children suddenly being told that they could no longer speak their own language, not understanding why. She thought of those who had not really wanted to come to start with, but had made the journey only out of loyalty or love, now being deprived of their last trace of home. She thought of Artanis, sitting stiff and tall on the edge of her bed, bitter and resentful and, though she would never let it show, so uncertain of what the future held.

It would be like a slow death, but what would die would be not the body, but the spirit and the memories of home. The core of their identity would shrivel slowly, and linger, before finally it died. Melian did not wish that upon anyone, for any reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Findaráto—Finrod  
> Angaráto—Angrod  
> Aikanáro—Aegnor  
> Artaresto—Orodreth  
> Nís—woman (plural: nissi)


End file.
